


Beyond the Chequered Flag

by StrangerHarringroves



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Billy Hargrove Being an Asshole, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Competition, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Formula 1, Gay Billy Hargrove, Gay Sex, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Major Character Injury, Physical Abuse, Protective Steve Harrington, Rival Relationship, Rivalry, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-08-13 21:24:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20180968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangerHarringroves/pseuds/StrangerHarringroves
Summary: Steve Harrington is a racing progidy and Billy Hargrove is his fearless rival. The championship season is drawing towards its climax and the pair are now in a personal battle, both on and off the track. One day, a tragic event causes their perspectives on life to shift and they find something in one another that tethers their fate forever.





	1. Lights Out

**Author's Note:**

> The following fic has been inspired by a piece of artwork I found on tumblr by user mxgicdave. Drawing from that and my interest in motorsports (particularly F1) I started writing and hoping for the best.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, please let me know ☺️

Looking out over the circuit, Steve watches the light as it makes its way from the stunning red-orange horizon to brush the top of the observation tower before slowly inching down. This time of the morning, as dawn breaks with the cool freshness of the air and the release of nights stifling grasp, is sublime and beautiful. It is stunning. The calm before the inevitable storm.

He can feel it in his bones, can almost taste the emissions. Today is going to be a ferocious battle.

/\

They’re roaring along the Hawkins Speedway, the unrelenting sun washing over them as they floored it up the Loch Nora straight. A pair of high-spec motors hitting over two-hundred lead the race, mere milliseconds separating them. The last six or so laps had been the same and when it looked like one driver would gain an advantage on the other, the chance would slip away with a tactical shift. So close. 

Steve Harrington sits behind the wheel of the sleek white Mercedes, edging up to the rear of the Renault in front. Eyes are focused on his rival, Billy Hargrove, watching and anticipating every decision. Eight-hundred metres stood between them and the next turns and the next opportunity for Steve to squeeze past his opponent. He has to be patient though, reveal his intentions too soon and Billy would clock that and defend his position. Billy is good at that and his background of drifting had given him nerves of steel - even if he was known to be reckless at times. He is a year older than Steve but Steve has more experience having been introduced to the world of motorsport at an early age. Motorsport on any level required money, which the Harrington family had never been short of. Billy never had that privilege.

Go go go!

Steve swings out to the left, making his intentions very clear and as predicted, Billy is ready for him, steering into his path and causing Steve to lift off the throttle marginally. As the front end dips, Steve rides the resulting drag and locks the car to the right, front wing almost contacting the Renault’s rear wheel. Eight hundred and fifty horsepower is thrown through the gearbox as Steve floors the throttle, the Mercedes edging down the opposite side of the car ahead. Steve’s heart thrums with adrenaline, the thrill of the race never getting old. Billy glances at his mirrors, teeth biting into his lower lip. He had wasted his one and only defensive manoeuvre on Harrington’s left venture and now he couldn’t challenge this move. Damn the regulations! 

“Hold off Billy.” The team radio warns and Billy bites back a curse. The Mercedes is now level with him and it’s anyone’s guess who would claim the racing line. One of them has to brake or they’d collide - now it is a game of nerves. Nerves and speed. Billy teases the car to the right, determined to hold the line and his position as they approach the chicane but that would mean braking too... 

Thud!

Side contact.

Billy did curse then, wrestling with his steering wheel in a desperate attempt to maintain control of the car. Steve catches this out of the corner of his eyes and as the Renault veers away, he brakes for the corner, turning the steering on to full-lock. The pace is too fast really and he jostles as the car bumps violently over the apex and just as he’s spinning to straighten up, he spots the blue Renault in his mirrors. Billy is still fighting for control; having overrun the corner after their brief contact. Steve can only smile to himself and continue onwards.

“FUCKSAKE!” Billy rants behind, the car now hitting the turf at speed, throwing up clouds of dust and grass. With a growl he cuts straight across, back towards the track, praying that he can gain some stability by the time he reaches it. 

Steve’s foot hovers over the brakes as he watches with wide eyes as the Renault cut straight across in front of him. He jams on the brakes and swerves to the left.

Here comes the storm...

An eruption of blue and red plastic is propelled into the air, ricocheting off the solid wall to the right. The Mercedes violently fluctuated as Steve fights to steer away from the aftermath of flying shrapnel. The last thing he needs is a puncture after all, not now that he has finally, finally taken the lead he had been fighting for all afternoon. “How bad is it?” He questions the team over the radio.  
“The car’s a write-off but Hargrove has emerged in one piece. You’ve got this Steve.”

Beautiful.

The chequered flag is there for the taking and the Mercedes accelerates towards it, throwing an arm up in victory as he is waved through. 

/\

The victory lap was cancelled due to the debris on the track and the rest of the drivers had to finish their race on a yellow flag behind a safety car. Steve hadn't minded, he would celebrate at the paddock with his team and then on the podium.

He's in the lobby waiting to head up when news reaches him that Billy had managed to come out of the accident with only a few cuts and bruises. His teammate Tommy had taken second place in the race and is quick to warn Steve.   
"He's not happy. Not happy at all. He's furious." The young driver says. 

"It's a race, shit happens." Steve murmurs his reply as he sits the winners cap on his head, mindful of the cameras in the room. Taking one of the complimentary bottles of water, he gulps back a considerable amount in an effort to cool down before flashing a smile toward one of the broadcasting cameras. All that's left to do is be weighed and then the three drivers can head up to face the music.

Steve loves it. People call him a prodigy because of his success at a young age and as much as he tries not to let it go to his head, he can't help but stand up on the podium with his head held high, milking the cheers from the fans below and responding with a wave.

/\

Meanwhile, Billy is pacing his hub, leaving a trail of destruction behind him. "He fucking rammed me! You saw that didn't you? He rammed me and made me lose it! He should be getting a penalty for that, the prick!"   
His team leader Jim Hopper knows better than to comment while Billy is this furious - these kinds of outbursts are not a rarity and experience has taught him to allow time for Billy to calm down. "Aaargh!" Billy growls and runs a hand through his sweat-damp curls. "He cost me the race. He cost me points. I want to see the officials now!" 

The words had barely left his mouth when the door is pushed open and in steps Billy's father, Neil Hargrove. The hub suddenly feels a lot colder. "Son." He says in a way of greeting, "Hopper." Something crunches beneath his feet and he sighs, bending to pick up a shard of broken glass. "Would you please give me a moment with my son?" 

Hopper excuses himself and as soon as the door closes behind him, Neil advances upon a rigid Billy, pinning him against the wall with a single palm to the chest. "You are supposed to be making me money, not costing me boy. Look at the mess you've made, how many times have I gotta tell ya?"   
Billy wants to retaliate, to argue that it's his money. His earnings. Instead, he clams up, watery eyes never leaving the cold gaze of his so-called-father, just like always. Somehow the vulnerable, scared eight-year old inside of him refused to leave.   
"Where's your respect? Your responsibility? This," Neil punctuates with a hard shove, "is embarrassing. You're embarrassing me. Do better, ya hear me?" 

Billy begins to nod and then thinks better of it. "Yes Sir." Oh and how he wishes his voice didn't sound quite so pathetic. His father finally backs off and Billy holds his breath, not daring to risk further incensing the man. When he leaves, the prelude of the Carmen-opera drifts into the hub, marking the champagne celebration on the podium and it stirs Billy up into another fit of rage, only this time he is additionally fuelled by his father's disapproval.

Harrington better watch his back.


	2. And Away We Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the positive responses! I hope you all enjoy this next chapter!

Two days pass. Two days since Steve stood atop the podium and accepted the trophy for coming first place. Two days since Billy Hargrove launched an offical complaint to the FIA and now the victory is under contention. Social media lapped the drama up, split in their opinions on just what had occurred that day on the track. It certainly cast a shadow on Steve's triumph and instead of the post-race interviews reflecting on his win, they focused on the contraversy. By Tuesday evening he was already sick of it all. Of course he has watched the footage over and over, maintaining that he in no way sabotaged Billy's race. He also watched his interviews. Despite being know to have a hot-temper, Billy had clearly rehearsed his responses but the underlying rage was evident underneath every accusation - at least to Steve. It wasn't the first time he'd been on the receiving end of Billy's moods but now it's getting ridiculous.

"He failed to yield the line! If you look carefully at the footage again, you'll see his front wheels twitch to right - he caused the contact." He's on the phone with his on-off girlfriend Nancy who is patiently listening five hours away. "It's a race, these things happen all the time but because it's Hargrove, there just has to be theatrics!"

"Would you not feel the same in his position?" Is the tentative reply.

"What? No. No because I am a reasonable human being and know that contact can and will happen. If we get penalised for that all the time, it's going to take the fun out of the sport Nance."

A soft sigh comes from the other end, "Well let's hope the FIA see it that way but for now you need to concentrate on the next race. If you do lose points, you need to fight back." 

"If I lose points, that dickhead goes ahead of me in the championship. Anyway, I better go, we fly out early to Montreal - I'm gutted you can't come with us." Truth be told, the fact that Nancy would rather stay in Indiana than support him, still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Of course he doesn't expect her to follow him around the world but she hadn't been to single race except his home circuit. It wouldn't be so bad, if at least one of his parents could tear themselves away from their business engagements to support him. Even that would be asking too much though. Steve had long ago learned what it meant by being alone despite being surrounded by people. They say their goodbyes and Steve flops down onto the bed next to his half-packed suitcase, the disappointments piling on top of him. 

/\

Billy had followed the Renault team transporters up to Montreal on the Monday evening. He hates flying if he doesn't have to, so he threw a suitcase into the boot of his camero and enjoyed the cruise up the highway instead. After a short stop in Toronto, he made it to his hotel just before noon the following day.

Wednesday finds Billy in the gym, blonde hair tied back into a bun as he runs up the steep incline of the treadmill. Forty minutes he's been at it and his legs are burning with the effort. It feels good to work up a sweat, especially with all the press attention and meetings he'd had to attend. He'd gone over his version of events numerous times, played and paused the footage, adamant that it was Harringrove in the wrong. Grabbing his hand towel, Billy wipes the sweat from his brow and dabs around the butterfly stitch that seals a cut he got from the crash. 

"Oh." 

Billy glances up at his reflection and immediately tenses when he sees that he is no longer alone. "Harrington." He may as well have spit the name out. Without breaking his pace, he dumps the towel down and glares at the mirror image of his rival, Steve Harrington. It isn't too astonishing that they would meet like this, the hotel is being used by quite a few of the drivers before they head out to the track for testing. The gym is a welcome and necessary feature for all of them. Still, seeing Steve with his sweeping dark hair and expensive gym clothes has Billy set right on edge.

Steve purses his lips, debating whether to bother even speaking to Billy. He has a few choice words banked up for him for sure but it would be unprofessional and unwise to start something so close to their next race. Wordlessly he takes a seat at the rowing machine, bending forward to adjust the settings, his back turned to the other driver. He can feel a pair of eyes seering into him as he begins his routine, the other probably affronted that he ignored him. Unlike Billy, the repetitive rowing motion does little to relieve the tension that has been coiling inside Steve since Sunday afternoon. He is hyper-aware that Billy is there, the core of his recent problems, mere feet away from him and as soon as he hears the treadmill grind to halt, he decides he can't stay silent after all. 

When Steve springs to his feet, he turns to find himself facing Billy who had already approached. At this close proximity, Steve mentally takes small satisfaction in the fact that he has good inch or so on the other. Billy is breathing heavily through parted lips, chest moving up and down with each pass of air and he's staring at Steve, almost daring him to speak. Without faltering, Steve stares back just as intently, brown eyes locking with ice-blue. Many people are intimidated by Billy. Even his own pit crew step aside when he walks into a room. Steve isn't intimidated, refuses to be. "I bet you're pleased with yourself." He ends up saying. 

Billy's gaze is unwavering but slowly, his lips twist to one side. "It's a bit early to say that, unless you know something I don't Harrington." The FIA hadn't reached a verdict yet. 

"Yeah. Well, if they have any sense they'll see through your bullshit tantrum and we can move on." 

Nosrils flaring, Billy takes a step closer, his chest brushing against Steve's slightly. "Watch your fucking mouth. Your fans may call you their King but just because you've got a pretty face doesn't mean you're immune to criticism. You rammed me, just admit it and only then can we move on."

"You turned in! I had nowhere to go because you wouldn't yield! Why would I ram you and risk spinning out myself? So you didn't win, so fuck, we can't win every damn race. Grow up and get over it." Steve responds, jabbing two fingers against Billy's sternum and pushing. It doesn't hurt but it triggers Billy to lurch forward, both hands fisting the cotton of Steve's shirt as he tugs him, throwing him into the nearest wall and pinning him there. Steve gasps as the wind is knocked from his lungs. Billy's face is a hairs breadth away from his own and breath carrying the scent of cigarettes, ghosts across his lips. 

"If we weren't racing this weekend I'd knock the shit out of you, you little shit." 

Steve wishes he could point out that he is, in fact, taller but all that would do is is add fuel to the fire. When Steve doesn't respond to the threat, Billy releases his grip, somewhat disappointed. He's sure he'd seen a challenge in those eyes and for a moment it had excited him. It's the same kind of feeling he gets when they're wing to bumper on the track, almost like a carnal need. Almost like he wants the other to ram him. Shaking his head, he pulls his gaze away from Steve and it's like he's snapping out of a trance. He takes a step back then turns to pull his sweat soaked shirt over his head, wiping himself down with it before heading toward the changing rooms. 

All Steve can do is watch him go, his mouth suddenly dry. 

That was... That was something. Bringing his hands up to wipe over his face, Steve decides to abandon his workout plans. His mind is a whirlwind right now and maybe he's just fatigued. Maybe he's stressed and missing Nancy. Or maybe he's on the cusp of a meltdown because somehow, somehow he'd let Billy Hargrove pin him against a wall and now his dick is standing to full attention within his shorts and Steve doesn't have the capacity to even begin questioning that right now. 

It's going to be a long weekend.


	3. Shake, Rattle and Roll.

Friday's practice sessions came and went without incident, a few minor tuning adjustments here and there but no nasty surprises. Billy was a dark cloud in the Renault garage, lingering ominously over the crew as they finely combed over the mechanics and electronics. As much as he pointed the finger at Steve Harrington, he had also deemed that his car was just not performing as it should have. Nobody argued. If he wasn't pacing and questioning the team, he was playing back footage of the race. Tomorrow they'd find out the FIA's verdict and if they sided with the golden boy, King Steve, Billy was not losing another race. The driver was lucky he didn't get his jaw broken in the gym that day.

Steve had managed to avoid bumping into Billy throughout all practice. Somehow, they even went onto the track at different times which was probably for the best. Keeping himself distracted, Steve's focus was on the track and the track only. Definitely not gyms and blonde curls, damp with sweat. He'd checked in with Nancy and instantly regretted it since she'd seemingly read up on the FIA regulations and instilled him with doubt. All the more reason for him to put his head into the game and forget everything else.

/\

Qualifying starts at one o'clock on the Saturday afternoon and both Steve and Billy are called into the headquarters a mere half an hour prior. Steve pointedly refuses to look at Billy as the board members recount the previous weekends events. Billy fidgets in his seat, his hands flexing and curling.

"... the council have agreed that you had not established enough of claim to the racing line into the corner. It was ill-judged and far too late. Mr Harrington, you have been a formidable sportsman thus far but we have to set an example that such recklessness has consequences. Therefore, we are enforcing a penalty and that means that the points you gained in Indiana will be removed. Mr Hargrove, I'm sure you're already aware that this means you are now at the top of the rankings..."

Steve stops listening. He'd love nothing more than to leave the room but he has to wait to be dismissed. Disbelief has numbed him anyway, he's not quite sure his legs would know how to work. How can they rule in favour of Billy Hargrove? They even admitted he has a temper! It's a fix, it has to be. Let the underdog have his bone for a while, keeps the fans interested, it's fucking unfair. He chances a glance in Billy's direction and he has the biggest grin on his face, all teeth and sparkling eyes. He's thanking the FIA for their time. Oh. They'd been dismissed? Steve rises to his feet and nods towards the council out of professional politeness, then turns on his heels and marches towards the exit.

Billy isn't far behind. "Hey, no hard feelings Harrington. Fair's fair."

Steve bristles and once they are outside he spins on Billy. "Fuck off with that bullshit Hargrove. You know you got the pity party, don't feel too accomplished." 

"Accomplished? I'm ranking above you now, Stevie-boy, I'd say that's a pretty fucking good achievement. I'm going to enjoy this immensely." 

"Yeah, well don't get too comfortable. This weekend is mine." Steve wishes he sounded more sure of that. Damn Billy and his shitty attitude. He needs to get away from him now!

"Whatever, I'm King of the road now and baby, you should see me in a crown." Billy's parting words are followed with a wag of his tongue that has Steve wanting to smack him. He glares at his retreating back and flips him off for good measure before heading back to the garage to update his team. 

/\

For all of Billy's elation, the start qualifying falls a little flat. The first round sees few cars actually on track, favouring the garages for fine-tuning and observing those that do venture out. Billy takes the Renault out for a spin but pits soon after, claiming that the steering is a little of the stiff side. Q2 is where things get more interesting. As soon as he hears the Mercedes is out, Billy is compelled to join it. A burst of acceleration up Droit du Casino brings the Renault up to temperature and Billy can't help but smirk to himself. The aerodynamics of the car are performing beautifully and upon turning through Virage Sienna, he can appreciate the efforts of his team in mitigating the steering issues from earlier. Coaxing the car out of the turn, he hits the throttle again, zipping past a Ferrari and a Honda. 

"How'm looking?" 

"Set for 1:11.214, looking good Billy." 

"... and Harrington?" 

There's a pause before the radio response, "I advise you keep focused on your performance-" 

"I want to know about Harrington." Billy raises his voice, swinging his car violently to the next turn and braking hard to flood his tyres with heat.

"His best lap currently stands at 1:11.200..."

DAMN. Billy grips his steering wheel harder. Beating Steve is almost an obsession at this point. He doesn't concern himself with why that is and every time the question has surfaced in the past, he's glossed it over with the rivalry excuse. As if sensing his frustration, the crew speak again. "We've got another session to go, I'm going to suggest hard compound tyres and a three-stop strategy." 

"What the fuck for?" In the final qualifying, the cars are set up as they will start in the race. If Billy accepts the advice, his car will be lighter than everyone else but at the cost of losing balance. Can he risk that if he winds up with Harrington on his tail? 

"We hold the record for fastest pits -" 

"No. It's Montreal, two stops. I can handle it."

/\

The Mercedes is running like a dream, it's driver handelling it around the circuit with expert ease. Despite starting the afternoon wound up and tense, Steve felt his woes melt away with every acceleration. Okay. He lost points and Hargrove nudged ahead of him but the gap between them is marginal. He could easily reclaim his position tomorrow without breaking a sweat. He leads qualifying 3, smashing his best lap time. The team make a consecutive decision to run on soft compounds and a two-stop strategy and Steve can only agree.

"How's the competition looking guys?"

"If Hargrove maintains his performance then he'll be second on the grid with Denby in third, followed by Howitt."

Of course, Steve shouldn't expect anything less and instead of the news making him feel anxious, a different sensation stirs in his stomach. The thrill of the race huh? Holding his pace, he grins, jetting down the left of the circuit before braking dramatically for the corner, gearing down from 7 to 2. He slides into the turn then hits the throttle, his heart skipping as the car loses traction for a moment. Up once, up twice, Steve pushes the Mercedes up to eight-thousand revs, flying up the straight. 

"Take it easy Steve, you've got this." 

But there's a blue Renault up ahead, past two Saubers and suddenly Steve is determined to catch up. He's got the pace, passing the Saubers should be a piece of cake. Steve steers to the right and throttles it, the gap quickly closing. His eyes flick between the Renault and the other two cars but before he can make his manoeuvre, the Mercedes jolts. 

It happens so fast.

The back end of Steve's car jerks sharply to the left. Instinctively, he swings the steering wheel in the same direction to correct but overdoes it. The front wing lifts, the airflow having been disturbed and now the Mercedes is skimming the track, completely out of Steve's control. The two Saubers had already made evasive action to avoid a collision and the Renault had already taken the apporcahing chicane. One hundred and eighty. That's how fast the car is flying and despite his desperate attempts, the car is just not responding to anything Steve tries. 

To spectators, the crash looks terrifying. The Mercedes rear crunches into the steel side-barrier, sending a cascade of car-parts exploding outwards. The car bounces away and the spectators watch on in horror as it spins out into the middle of the track, barely missing an oncoming Toyota. 

Inside Steve is jostled about violently, his head whipping about despite the head and neck support he is tethered into. He notes the smudge of colours, the smell of burned rubber and gasoline, the deafening screech of twisting metal, the pain and then. Nothing. 

The car comes to rest on the right verge, it's driver slumped at the wheel. 

/\

"Just to let you know, Harrington's out." 

"What?" Billy swears he just saw a glimpse of the Mercedes a few corners back. 

"He's crashed out. It's pretty bad."

Crashed? Ah. Red flag. "That'll piss him off, bet he's stomping off somewhere." Somehow, that doesn't make Billy feel as good as it should. If Steve is out, he's lost his main competition which, while likely securing him another win, takes a little wind out of his sails. Damn it Harrington, how'd you manage to fuck even this up for me? 

"He's not moving. Paramedics on scene." 

The somber tone cuts through Billy's thoughts and renders him silent. Suddenly he feels ill. Cold and sick. It takes every ounce of control for Billy to cruise slowly back to the pit, all the while his heart in his throat, threatening to choke him. He tugs at his restraints, climbing out of the car on shaking limbs. People are talking to him, congratulating him for being on pole position but he can't even think. Feeling suffocated by his helmet, that comes off next and he carelessly tosses it aside before heading towards the Mercedes garage. 

"Is he -?" He can't finish the sentence. Doesn't want to. 

Steve can't be dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one said this was going to be an easy road hahaha
> 
> I'M SORRY STEVE


	4. Turn it Up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better late than never! My life is chaos at the moment but I hope the building tension makes up for it!

In the still of the darkness, everything is peaceful. Steve's thoughts were chaotic and scattered, but upon closing his eyes, he was able to expel everything to the far corner of his mind. Sleep and darkness are the perfect remedies for dealing with the pain. He could easily stay like this forever…

…but something is missing.

Suddenly the self-preserving cocoon he had buried himself within expanded. It was like he was suspended by unseen arms above a bottomless pit and everywhere he looked he was met with never-ending darkness. He calls out and is surprised when his voice comes out small and withered. Surrounded by nothing, he felt utterly alone and thrashed against the invisible force holding him in place. Need to get out… Need to get out…

… And then, he was on his back. He felt cold and for some reason his body was rising and falling. It was somehow soothing, he felt light as a feather. Floating up and up. Something is beeping distantly and he stirs, eyelids creasing as awareness seeps back into his conscious. Eyes flutter open, glazed with dwindling remnants of his sleep. Steve finds himself staring up at white ceiling tiles. It takes a while for his disjointed thoughts to rearrange themselves and when they do, he wants nothing more than to crawl back into the refuge of sleep.

The crash. Being thrown around, the shriek of twisting metal. It had been so loud, he is sure his eardrums would burst. He doesn't remember too much of the pain but it's there now, dull and probing. His eyes shift around the room and land on Joyce Byers, engrossed in a standard magazine she'd found. Moving isn't an option right now as he quickly finds out, his head and neck supported by braces. A small flutter of panic makes him gasp, the possibility of career-ending injuries too terrible to consider. At the gasp, Joyce's lifts her gaze, a warm smile lighting up her face. Immediately, the magazine is forgotten, her chair scraping forward as she leans over to grasp his hand. 

"Oh Steve, you had us all scared. I didn't think - well it doesn't matter, you're going to be just fine!" 

Steve twists his lips in to what he hopes is a smile, it hurts to do so. "What's the damage?" Define fine, he wanted to say. 

"Severe whiplash, a couple of broken fingers, bruised ribs - otherwise you're just a bit beaten up. You're so lucky, the doctors said it could have been a lot worse and your car was an absolute mess!" 

Relief washes over Steve, enough for a small tear to escape the corner of his eye. He certainly feels like he's been hit by a truck."Did I hit anyone?"

Joyce shakes her head. "Not a single scratch but Steve, I think you should sit out the next race..."

"No." He croaks. "We have a fortnight until we leave for Silverstone, I'll be alright by then. I can't afford to miss races Joyce, you know that - wait, what day are we on?" He hopes he hasn't been out for the count too long and missed an entire week or something.

"It's still Saturday Steve, you've been asleep for six hours. Look, I know you're determined but if the team deems you unfit then that's their call. We'll have to wait and see." 

"Can't you persuade Bob to go easy on me?" It's worth a try to use the budding romance between his boss and his sort-of-adopted mom. She's been more of a mother to him than his own that's for certain. 

"We'll see. He's popped in a few times to see you, everyone's been asking after you. Nancy and Dustin called... Oh and Billy Hargrove was hovering around too." 

Hargrove? Huh. Well, it will be another victorious weekend for the Renault driver that's for sure. 

/\

Sunday arrives with the promise of showers but the buzz of activity on the grid pre-race is just as heightened as ever. The previous days crash is still in the minds of many but the drivers are forced to use it as a learning tool to avoid making a similar error. Of course the masses are relieved to hear that Steve Harrington had survived his horror-crash and opinions are divided whether he'll be racing in England in two weeks time. For Billy, he has to. 

Standing outside the back of the Renault garage, he smokes his fourth cigarette of the hour, his foot tapping the asphalt. Today should be an easy win, even on slick tyres but it's hard to be thrilled about it when his main rival is absent. It's possible some other driver might up the pressure on him but the taste of success is far more sweeter when he can watch Harrington deflate with disappointment. Gloat in his face because he's an asshole and that's his style. The ice-cold fear from yesterday had long fled and his little visit seems like a distant memory now. It's like he had spent the rest of the afternoon walking around in a trance, he can't even remember what words were exchanged but he had a burning need to know that Harrington would be alright. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat interrupts his thoughts and he turns around to find his father standing there, his lips a tight grim line. 

"What are you doing out here smoking boy? You should be on the grid, at least act like you're interested in winning today." He barks, lifting a hand to knock the cigarette from Billy's fingers. "The media are sweeping up the grid and they're gonna want to hear from the pole position. Get your ass out there." 

"Yes Sir." There's little point in arguing, Billy avoids his father's hard gaze and is about to head through the garage when his arm is gripped roughly. 

"You are winning this race. Pussy-boy Harrington is in hospital, there's no excuse. Shame he wasn't wiped out permanently." 

Billy feels a surge of raw anger at that and yanks his arm free, fire billowing in his eyes. "Don't say that!" He hisses, his stomach flip-flopping as Neil's lips morph into a sinister smirk. 

"You're lucky you're about to face the cameras boy or I'd knock the faggot right out of you. You crushing on that pansy now? Is that it?" 

Blood running cold, Billy backs away, shaking his head vehemently. He's wrong. So fucked up and wrong. He wants to scream in his face, hit him over and over. He takes another step back until he collides with a solid mass. Hopper. 

" Oh good you're here, come on, the SCM want to interview you." Although Hopper is speaking to him, his eyes are slightly narrowed in Neil's direction and Billy wonders how much the man had heard. Body still thrumming with fury, he swallows thickly and moves past his boss, heading out to the grid where his demeanour suddenly changes to one of faux-confidence and positivity. 

/\

Steve watches the race from his bed in his private ward. Joyce had offered to drive him to the track and wheel him to the executive viewing podium but he had flatly refused. Missing the race is bad enough to be there amongst it all is even worse in his mind. He almost didn't even turn the TV on. 

It's a boring race as far as racing goes, not helped by the grey, drizzly afternoon. Hargrove starts the race in pole position and remains there until the end and the only driver who came close to being a challenge had their race ended by engine trouble. Steve picks up the remote to change the channel but pauses when Billy climbs out of his car at the end, giving a rather unenthusiastic wave to his team and the fans beyond before disappearing inside. 

What's with him? 

Throughout the entire presentation, Steve noticed the Renault driver seems subdued - almost annoyed which doesn't make a lick of sense. You've just won some more points damn it! He wants to yell at the screen. They're presented their trophies and when it's Billy's turn to talk to the presenters, the camera zooms in close. The smile is strained and tight, false. Steve knows this because he's perfected that same smile. Winning a race is a glorious feeling but sometimes his accomplishments are over-shadowed by the fact that he has no one besides Bob and Joyce to share them with. No Nancy and no parents.

On the screen, Billy's blue eyes flick up and the look is so intense, that Steve's breaths hitches. It's like Billy is looking right at him, solely him. 

"Harrington." 

Wait, what? 

"Harrington. I hope you're watching this." Billy lifts his trophy and presses a kiss to the side of it, his eyes still trained on the camera. Steve gulps, suddenly feeling hot all over. There was something oddly... erotic about that. "You better be at Silverstone. You and I gotta race good and proper. I want you on that podium with me, you hear me?" The crowd erupts but all Steve can here is his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. 

Stupid pain relief pills. "I'll be there." He whispers, eyes locking with those on the screen. "I'll be there."


	5. London Calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Practice session is rained off but Billy suggests a trip to London on impulse. Things get complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gift you with a longer chapter since it took me an age to update! Thank you so much for the support, I hope you enjoy 😊

Practice sessions at Silverstone are a complete washout. In true British fashion, the sky had darkened and unleashed a torrent of unrelentless downpour. Billy watches the rain bounce off the tarmac from the drivers lounge window with a grim expression. Delays can make any driver tense but this weekend was highly anticipated thanks to Billy's personal invitation to Steve Harrington. With Neil breathing down his neck every five minutes and Hopper's pacing, Billy had escaped the trailer and tucked himself into the farthest corner of the lounge. He normally avoided coming here, as a rule. In fact most drivers opted to hover around their respective garage or hid away in their trailers.

One good thing about the rain is that it had sent most of the press into hiding. Billy's closing statement on the podium had caused a media frenzy and at every opportunity he's been collared to elaborate and rile up the fans further. Harrington on the other hand, seems to have managed to avoid it all. Only that morning it was rumoured that Steve might be MIA this weekend - Billy sincerely hopes it's hearsay.

Leaning back in the chair, he picks at the carton holding his coffee, turning away from the window to put his feet up on the seat opposite him. He is still wearing his race-suit, except the the top half has been rolled down to his waist, freeing his arms so that he can move more fluidly and stay cool. His balaclava is tucked away inside his helmet though Billy doubts they'll even get in track today at all. It takes him a moment to realise that the ambience of the room has changed; the quiet murmurs have risen and chair legs are scraping across floors. It's the applause that really grabs his attention and he looks around to see that none other than Steve Harrington had arrived, all smiles and politeness as he greets the others with handshakes and pats to the shoulders. Despite having been in an accident recently, Harrington looks to be in good shape, dressed similarly to Billy except his suit is mostly white in comparison to Billy's deep blue. As the noise fades and people return to their business, Steve looks over and catches his gaze. He observes the slight furrow of brows, almost as if the he can't decide whether he should come over of not. Billy gives nothing away beyond a tilt of the head. Steve takes a step in his direction. 

Showtime. 

Billy doesn't stand until Steve approaches and when he does, it's with his signature arrogant swagger, chest slightly pushed forward and a smirk upon his lips.

"You made it, for a moment there I thought you'd bailed." 

Steve snorts softly, placing his hands on his hips. From this distance Billy can see the evidence of the crash on his face: small marks and blemishes. One disappears into a dimple as Steve grins. "And turn down your gracious challenge? Never. What would the world say?" He takes a seat without being invited to and Billy follows, more than aware of the few pairs of eyes watching them.

"You watched the race, it was dull as fuck. I need my rival back." Billy shrugs. "I take it the quacks gave you the thumbs up?" 

"I'm here aren't I? Careful though, some might think you missed me."

Billy opens his mouth then closes it again, swallowing what feels alarmingly like panic and masking it with a scoff. "Whatever keeps you warm at night Harrington, don't be getting ideas in that pretty head of yours." 

It's weird. Their encounter in the gym feels like years ago now. Anger, frustration and - something. Now they're having a semi-civil conversation, when did that happen? 

/\

He's already sitting now, walking away wouldn't look great but Steve can't help how his cheeks warm at Billy's words and hopes it isn't visible. It's no good even trying to understand what's going on with himself at the moment. In the space between his accident and today, he'd managed to have a fall out with Nancy, dealt with the aftermath of that via Dustin and his band of merry friends, had argument with his parents and snapped at Joyce. The icing on the cake was the lack of a full night's sleep. His dreams were a flicker of distorted images and sensations. Hot breath and damp skin. Need and want. Instead of soft curves and breathy moans though, his hands found taut muscle and his body ached for something deeper. It was, it was like... 

Click. Click. 

Steve blinks rapidly as Billy snaps his fingers in front of his face, a look of annoyance and is that... worry? 

"Where the fuck did you go?" He says, sitting back. 

"Sorry, was just... It doesn't matter. What did you say?" Now his cheeks are burning.   
Billy eyes him curiously but seems to accept his answer. "I was saying that I don't think we'll get out today, you know, because of the weather?" 

"O-Oh, yeah. I hear it's supposed to be clear for qualifying at least." Well this is nice, Steve thinks. In wet England, talking about the weather. He laughs to himself then laughs more when he sees Billy's perplexed face. 

"What's so funny Harrington? You sure you're alright to drive?" 

Before Steve can respond, both of their phones simultaneously vibrate as an offical practice cancellation is pushed out. "Looks like we won't be finding out today." Steve sighs, slipping his phone away. Disappointing but not entirely unexpected. 

"Wanna get out of here?" Billy finds himself asking, already rising to his feet into a full body stretch. "I want to get out of this suit before I start to chafe."  
Beginning to think that Billy is playing with him, Steve starts to formulate an excuse but his tongue feels thick and he winds up nodding in agreement and following him.

The rain is a welcome distraction and Steve definitely isn't thinking about Billy's sweaty balls as they part ways to change clothes. The other hadn't said where they were going but to meet him at his car because of course Billy Hargrove doesn't travel with his team. He opts for smart-casual with a navy button-up over jeans and a pair of converse he can't seem to part with. Billy is waiting inside a vintage 1979 Camero which Steve falls for instantly. For some reason he was expecting something more modern and flashy but this is a thousand times better. 

"Nice ride." He says as he slides into the passenger side. Billy has also changed into jeans and in that position, the dark denim may as well be painted onto his thighs. Other than that, a plain white tee with a low cut neck line completes the look. "Where are we going by the way?" 

"London." 

/\

Billy thoroughly enjoys Steve's reaction. This wasn't planned at all, Billy even surprised himself but it was this or go back to the trailer and deal with his father all day. Reaching into the door pocket, he retrieves a cigarette and lights up before starting the engine and rolling away. 

They drive in comfortable silence as they pass by several quiet villages outside of Silverstone. It's only when they join the M40 that Billy puts his foot down and cranks up the music. Steve leans forward and picks up a case of cassette tapes, taking them out one by one to examine. "I can't believe you have these... Black Sabbath? Motley?" 

"All the best." Billy muses, lips lifting at the corners. "I like the way they sound. On the cassette I mean, there's something raw and grainy about it." 

"Ohh. Have you been to London before?" 

"Nope."

"Wait, so why - shit, you better not get us lost. Do you think we'll see the Queen?" 

Billy laughs at that and shakes his head. "First off, I won't get us lost, asshole and I don't think the Queen of England wanders around London like - we're not going to run into her in fucking Starbucks." 

Steve is laughing now, the mental image is too much. "Hey, I wonder if she'd get the barista's to write 'Queen' or 'Elizabeth' - wait, or or, 'Lizzy'?" 

"You're an idiot." Billy says and when he glances at Steve, his stomach does that stupid whirly thing it does when he wins a race. Steve's smiling openly and it reaches his eyes, making them glisten. And now... that smile is directed at him and Billy needs to concentrate on road again before another crash hits the headlines. 

/\ 

Just over two hours later, after getting stuck in conjested traffic and driving around in circles looking for somewhere to park, they can finally get out and stretch their legs. 

The first thing Steve notices, is that the streets are quite literally flooded with people and he can guess that many of those will be tourists. He takes a deep breath, pushing down the anxious feeling that is bubbling beneath his skin. Being from a small town like Hawkins, Indiana, cities tend to be a little on the intimidating side to Steve. Billy seems to take the lead anyway and so he follows, weaving through the crowds of people. The rain has slowed to a dreary drizzle now and thankfully no one is taking any notice of them to recognise them. They duck into the first coffee shop they find to refuel and gather their bearings. Billy has his phone out as soon as they're seated, bringing up a live location map. 

"We're in Soho..." He murmurs, brows bunching together as his fingers swipe across the screen. Steve doesn't know what that means and doesn't ask, choosing to look over the selection of cakes on offer. "Fuuuuuk, we need to go to Sister Ray's. It's says here you ain't a vinyl lover if you haven't been there and later we gotta try some of these bars, Cahoots sounds like a fucking trip." 

Cahoots sounds like a lapdancing club in Steve's mind. "Wait, how long are you planning on staying here til?" 

"Might as well make a night of it." Billy shrugs and tucks his phone away. Steve mulls over that a moment. He hopes Billy isn't planning on them getting shitfaced, that could land them in deep shit tomorrow for qualifying and cost them both severe penalties. Steve's mind is set at ease when Billy continues, pointing out several live music venues. They each order a coffee and cake and soon conversation turns back to music, learning that whilst they share a liking of few similar artists, Billy leans towards the classic rock genre whereas Steve is more partial to modern indie. 

From the cafe, they visit Camden and Carnaby Street then wander around Liberty London, a shopping complex that from the outside looks like some kind of Tudor manor house. For dinner they end up back at Carnaby Street, in a restaurant named Dirty Bones. 

"Cheers." Steve says, lifting a bottle of spiced ale and meeting Billy's with clink of glass. They can have a couple of drinks, he reasoned, taking a good swig. The barbecue ribs on his plate have been cleaned as well as he can manage and if he eats another chilli-cheese potato skin, he might keel over. Billy's still picking at his garlic and herb curly fries but Steve reckons he'll admit defeat very soon. They had talked racing most of the evening, mechanics and technicalities dissolving into playful jabs at one another. Steve had almost forgot they were 'enemies'... but were they? What would happen tomorrow back at Silverstone? Would Billy go back to being an aggressive dickhead? Or would they be.. friends? Does Billy even have friends? 

"How come I never see you with a girlfriend?" Steve thought that would sound better than 'why don't you have any friends?' but by the look on Billy's face, he got that wrong. 

"I could ask you the same thing?" 

Steve quirks his brow, "you know I have a girlfriend." 

"Yeah? Where is she now? I don't remember seeing her at the hospital either." 

Ouch. Steve drains the last of his bottle and sets it down, wishing he could have another now. It's a fair question and it's not like he hadn't asked himself the same thing. "It's complicated." He offers lamely, refusing to meet Billy's eyes. The more he thinks about it, the more distant he feels from the girl he fell in love with at high school and that terrifies him. Its easier to ignore it like a coward and pretend. "You didn't have to come and see me. At the hospital." 

Great diversion Steve. 

Now it's Billy's turn to avoid eye contact. He still doesn't fully understand it himself but part of it was knowing there was no one else there to visit aside from Steve's team captain, Jane? Joy? Whatever. He clears his throat, "Just making sure you weren't dead and it couldn't hurt to check out the nurses there too." 

Steve rolls his eyes. "Well. Thanks." He means it. 

"Not a problem pretty boy. Now let's get this bill paid and hit the bars because shit's getting heavy and you clearly need a good time." 

A good time? 

Steve watches Billy who is taking a card out of his wallet to pay, then like a jerk, he snaps his fingers in the air to gain the attention of a waiter. With his tongue caught between his teeth, he meets Steve's gaze and winks. 

Steve's pulse jumps. 

He's fucked. He's well and truly fucked.


	6. Flammable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alcohol usually numbs the senses and quells the fires of 'fucking pissed off'. Alcohol is usually an easy way out of his own head. Tonight, alcohol is losing that battle and Billy is spiralling. It had been going so, so well. For the first time in a long time he had felt content, the walls he'd carefully constructed around himself had begun to lower by his own permission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took wayyyy longer than I would have lived to update. Thankfully I have come out of my writing rut, thanks to the encouragement of tumblr friends!
> 
> Things are going a bit hairy again for the boys but I hope you enjoy the drama haha. Also if you're enjoying this, please check out my other post-apocalyptic WIP: where the lines overlap (between two lungs)!

Billy's mood had darkened approximately an hour into their bar crawl. It seems to roll off him in thick, uncomfortable waves and Steve is helpless to stop it. The shift was so abrupt, initiated by the slam of a glass bottle, startling Steve enough to almost drop his phone. He quickly replied to Nancy (who had eventually messaged him) and slid the device back into his pocket, returning his attention to his scowling companion.

"That bad huh?" He says, indicating to the beer and laughing nervously at his own joke. Billy doesn't even look at him. "You alright?"

It doesn't seem like Billy isn't going to respond until he slowly turns his head, pasting on the fakest smile ever. "Just peachy."

Okay.

Steve thinks about ordering them both a Pepsi. Billy should definitely not drink anymore or he'll be over the limit to drive back to Silverstone. They have an early start for qualifying so staying over isn't an option, even though Steve had entertained the idea fleetingly over the course of the evening. Maybe this entire thing had been a bad idea.

"We should probably switch to soda -"

"We? You can do what you want. I'll have the same again." Billy catches the bartender's eye and drops a few coins onto bar.

Okay. What happened to teasing and bonding over cars? Maybe Billy is a moody drunk? Steve sighs and simply watches as Billy chugs on another beer, only stopping to gasp for air.

Okay.

"Billy... qualifying is tomorrow."

"Tch, like I don't know Harrington. Fuck, you're a nag." Billy's slurring his words, eyes beginning to look a little red around the rims. It's all Steve can do not to snatch the bottle from his hands and throw it across the room. This isn't fair. This was supposed to be a few drinks in a bar, winding down to some local live music. This was supposed to be fun.

This was a mistake.

/ \

Alcohol usually numbs the senses and quells the fires of 'fucking pissed off'. Alcohol is usually an easy way out of his own head. Tonight, alcohol is losing that battle and Billy is spiralling. It had been going so, so well. For the first time in a long time he had felt content, the walls he'd carefully constructed around himself had begun to lower by his own permission. 

It was going well until the trill of an incoming message emitted from Harrington's pocket. Billy had to watch Steve's face, illuminated by his phone's screen, morph from mild irritation to smiling softly. At that time, he could have slipped outside and Steve would have been none the wiser. He didn't need to ask to know that it was Steve's girlfriend. Of course it was.' It's complicated', sure, looks like it. 

That's why, minutes later, Billy's drinking more and avoiding Steve as best he can. He's too buzzed to question why it matters that he was texting his girlfriend. That's what couples do right? Billy can't relate. The closest he's ever come to a relationship is taking willing girls back to his trailer or hotel room. It gets him off if he shuts his brain down well enough, keeps his father off his case and the gossip magazines love it. There's a blonde eyeing him now, lips glossed and tits half-exposed by a plunging neckline. He wonders if Steve has noticed her too. Would Steve be into her? A brief image of Steve between her legs creeps into his mind and it prompts another swig of beer. She's staring now. Billy stares back, smirks a little too. He's perfected how to flirt using body language and it works every time. The nameless girl responds by running painted fingernails between the valley of her breasts. 

Billy turns to Steve. He'd been saying something and is now looking at him impatiently, phone nowhere in sight. 

"Whadya think?" He slurs, pressing his tongue into his cheek to make an obscene gesture. 

"What? Did you hear anything I said?" Steve looks frustrated, his cheeks tinged pink, lips pinched together. Billy laughs, pushing the word 'cute' far to the back of his mind.

"Blondie sat over there. She's giving me 'fuck me' eyes. I'm willing to share though." 

Steve's eyes bug out of his head before he even looks to see what Billy is talking about. Billy waits for a blush or maybe an awkward shifting of feet. It doesn't come. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?" Steve's tone is flat and Billy doesn't know what that means. 

Oh. Girlfriend. Duh. 

"I won't tell your girlfriend."

Seemingly that was the wrong thing to say as Steve's nostrils flare and he's spinning on him, furious. "Fuck you." He spits. "And fuck this. You're risking your career here you asshole. Have you lost your mind? No, don't answer. I'm gonna see if I can get a cab that will take me all the way to fucking Silverstone. You can do what you want. I should never have come here with you, I should have known you'd ruin everything."

"You finished?" Billy sneers when Steve stops to take a breath. "You're the one that ruined everything dickhead. Is your girl coming to see you this weekend? Didn't think so. She fucks you off every damn race and you just lay down and take it like a pussy. When's the last time you got your dick wet? No wonder you're so uptight. Fucking whipped."

/ \

His fist collides with Billy's nose before he can even think to stop it. He's practically shaking as the bar descends into chaos, arms holding him back from an equally restrained Billy. The other is spitting fire, blood gushing from his nose as people struggle to keep him from lunging forward. Steve is quietly compliant when bouncers step in to remove them from the premises, the threat of police involvement eventually dousing the ball of rage that is Billy Hargrove.

Outside, they lose one another for a while and Steve decides it's for the best. Talk about making a scene. Both their asses are up shit creek if this gets out. It makes no sense, how could things flip so suddenly? Billy hadn't even been that drunk in the grand scheme of things and yet. Yet... did he really suggest a three-way? Punches and insults aside, Billy Hargrove had, without a doubt, suggested that they both fuck a random blonde girl. What? 

Objectively, pre-Nancy, Steve would have probably been tempted by the girl alone. Before Nancy, he had fucked a number of girls not unlike the blonde in the bar. Billy though? That's.. that's - no. He's not thinking about that right now. Billy's an asshole and now, upon reflection, his little tirade cut. Cut Steve open and left him to bleed on a dark London street. He checks his phone and finds nothing of comfort. Nancy had either grown bored or had fallen asleep. The latter sounds better. If only Billy had been completely off the wall with his attack, then he wouldn't feel so exposed right now but his accusations were pretty much accurate. No Billy, my girl is not coming to support me this weekend. She has a project with Jonathan Byers and it's 'critical to her future career prospects'. Yes Billy, she does as you so eloquently put it 'fucks me off every damn race'. When did I last get my dick wet? I can't remember but I did spit into my palm and rub one out thinking of - 

Fuck. Fuck London. 

They find each other by the Camero and wordlessly climb in together. Steve waits until they're back on the motorway before he chances a glance at the damage. Billy has tissue paper stuffed up both nostrils, the bridge of his nose looking a little swollen and sore. Billy catches him looking but says nothing. Steve's glad the fight isn't brought up. He doesn't want to talk about the bar or anything related to it and judging by Billy's rigid posture, he feels the same. Without music, the lull of the engine sends Steve into a dreamless sleep and he doesn't wake again until the engine is cut off. He winces at the throb in his head, checking the time to find they'd managed to make it back just after eleven. Billy just sits there. 

"Thanks for the ride." It seems like the polite thing to say - the only thing Steve can think of to say after a night like this. Billy nods unblinking, the only acknowledgement that he had even heard Steve speak. He climbs out and sucks in a deep breath, closing the door and the awkward aura inside, behind.

He makes it four paces before he can feel eyes on him and he looks back, ready to meet Billy's gaze, only to find Billy is not looking at him at all. On the other side of the camero, silhouetted against the night, stands Neil Hargrove, Billy's father. Steve had only briefly met the man once before and it had been about as comfortable as root canal. Now, he can increase that discomfort tenfold. Walking faster, Steve is eager to get away from Neil's scrutiny - though he feels a pang of remorse for Billy, despite everything. 

Damn it all.


End file.
